


Numbers and regret

by quenive



Series: This and that [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hal is human in this, Hal's POV, M/M, Sadstuck, Smoking, just two affection deprived gay boys, most likely, not related to Dirk though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:38:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8109778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quenive/pseuds/quenive
Summary: When you pick up, there's silence. Sharp, crippling silence. The only sound you could hear was your heart beating, and even that was just the pulse itself rising up to your ears. If it weren't for the weight of everything making your body one with the floor beneath it, you'd be on cloud fucking nine, all kinds of fucking jubilant and in raptures of motherfucking delight.And then you hear it. A deep breath coming from his side, and an exhale he tried to keep inaudible but failed miserably at."Hey."





	

You're really good with numbers, you always have been. It just came so naturally and so easy, everyone referred to it as this weirdo gift you've had since you remember. You find yourself visually scoffing at that. What kind of a shitty gift are math powers if you aren't going to use them for anything? Even now, you lost track of the seconds and minutes that brushed by so quickly. The brain inside your head is having a rave party in your skull and its body keeps slamming itself into your inner walls, leaving you with a gnarly fucking headache and slowing down your processing ability by a staggering 34.828%. You'll just brush that instant statistic as 35%. As inaccurate as it may be, you just... can't be bothered to think about numbers now. Some mathematical abilities you got there, chump, you aren't fucking sure has it been ten minutes or an hour already.

Given the fact that this is your third cigarette in a row, you sincerely doubt it's been the former. However, you do pride yourself on being an exceptionally quick smoker. Noxious smoke doesn't have anything on your iron lungs, even the strongest brand you get doesn't affect you anymore. Seriously, every tobacco distribution company can go shove a fistful of their own shitty product up their gross asses, and see if the nicotine can affect them from fucking there because you can't comprehend the fact that you became so numb to nearly every sensation you try to keep close to you.

Nearly. Nearly every sensation.

Your thoughts almost instantly calm down as soon as your eyes flicker to his sleeping figure. He used to look so at peace when he slept, but now his face was as tense as it is when he's actually awake. The porcelain ashtray shaped like a horse with an unnatural indent on his back was full of cigarette ash, but you shake off the end bit of ash from your cigarette anyways. If it topples down, who cares? It isn't your bed anyways, and you don't plan on returning to it anytime soon.

It's dark, but your eyes are adjusted enough to see each strand of his messy hair individually, each freckle on his pale face, the way the hair on the back of his neck stuck to it due to all the excessive sweating he did not too long ago. He was still without a shirt, as were you. The only difference being his possession of a blanket and your borderline shivering, resisting the urge to curl up under your share of covers and just sleep. But now that your eyes landed on him, you can't bring yourself to look away. You'd never admit how much this is actually crushing you. Either you'll never hear the end of it, or that will be the actual end of it.

You weren't doing anything important with your life anyways. Just sitting in front of an empty sheet of paper, forcing your mind to come up with anything worthwhile to distract you from the crippling loneliness. But the harder you try, the more difficult it got. Every project and idea seemed so very fucking distant that you were nearly tugging on your hair and screaming nonsense to the sheet in front of you. You wanted a clearer head, clearer thoughts, clearer mind. You needed to get out, but you've been stuck in your little shitty hermit hole for god knows how long. It became comfortable, safe, but it was also conflicting and claustrophobia-inducing. Yeah, you're basically buried alive under 6ft of your own personal bullshit and there ain't a snorkel in sight. Not even one of those weird plants by lakes that you can just pick up, shove into your mouth and breathe through while diving. But even if you did, with your luck you'd swallow a weird bug that just happened to crawl through it when you wanted to inhale. Like in that one movie you have trouble recalling at the moment, what was it called again? Wait. You don't care, that's not the point. You don't care about anything.

That's when he called.

You never memorize numbers on your phone, since you have no trouble remembering the numbers of your, quote unquote, "friends". This, however, was a set of digits your eyes didn't scan in a long fucking time. They had the ability to make your heart race, your palm sweaty, your breathing heavy. Your brain was overheating, wanted to collapse in on itself. It would have, if it wasn't for sheer willpower alone and the undying wish to pick up your phone.

You know why he's calling, if your flawless assumptions were anything to go by.

He's so desperate, so hungry for love, attention, physical contact, and affection, now deprived from everything above and your heart is clenching at the realization that he used to depend on you for all of that once. The tables have somewhat turned, only you have a hard time making your desperation noticeable. You don't want to show off your weaknesses, you don't want him to know how much you crave him. Especially since your friend group is falling apart at an alarming speed. You were the last one in, and the first one out. No one really liked you anyways, only Dirk. Everyone saw right through your bullshit with no problem. Even English, who was as blind as a bat both in a figurative and literal way. They want no part of that mentioned bullshit. They can see it, but they don't understand it.

Dirk understood it more than anyone. You two are similar in more ways than one, and you know he knows it and you know that the fact eats him up at night. Even with your similar ironic getup, your tendency to get lost in projects, your similar interests, it was difficult to get along with him. It was a struggle, a battle, but neither of you were quitters and both of you soon became a direct part of the other.

It has been months, literal months since you heard his voice. You're tired, sad, lonely, pathetic, but his number lit up a spark in you. A spark that was fading slowly, dying out, starting to rot and making your whole essence as putrid as you always saw yourself being.

When you pick up, there's silence. Sharp, crippling silence. The only sound you could hear was your heart beating, and even that was just the pulse itself rising up to your ears. If it weren't for the weight of everything making your body one with the floor beneath it, you'd be on cloud fucking nine, all kinds of fucking jubilant and in raptures of motherfucking delight.

And then you hear it. A deep breath coming from his side, and an exhale he tried to keep inaudible but failed miserably at.

"Hey."

Which brings you to your current situation. You're naked, exhausted, and miserable. The ash from your cigarette just fell on your thigh and burned your skin, and you're going to catch a cold if you remain like this. Despite everything, you're oddly satisfied, even if you don't see this happening again any time soon.

He touched you like he was handling something dangerous, unpredictable, ready to explode in his face if he made the wrong move. There wasn't as much care nor passion in his moves as there was precision. When you touched back, he found it more and more easy to relax. It was okay, you had him, you held him. You wanted him to know that he's safe, that he's loved, even if he rarely gave back the favor. You know it faded a long time ago, but you still catch yourself thinking about him before you sleep, or as soon as you wake up. Sometimes with a cigarette in your hand, sometimes with your dick instead.

He kissed you like a parched man drinks water, full of crippling need, sharp intakes of air in between. He tugged at your hair, but you touched his gently. He left scars, but you left marks. When he begged, you obliged like an obedient puppy even if he was the one asking and pleading.

He didn't look at you, but your eyes were on him like they are right now. Piercing, pained, asking of so little but willing to give so much.

You forget to smoke, and the rest of the ash falls on your thigh again. Like the first time, you didn't even flinch, nor find the need to instantly brush it away. You do, however, extinguish the cigarette into the overflowing equine ashtray. Some falls on the mattress, but you sweep it off with your palm and set the porcelain pony onto the nearest nightstand.

Somehow, you manage to pry your eyes away from his sleeping image and you stand up. His bed creaks a bit, but he seemed to be in deep sleep at the moment. There is no doubt in your mind that he wants you gone before the morning even hits, so you pick up all of your clothes from the floor and pull them on. The blanket looked inviting, sure, but so did your own home. You have completed your purpose, you're not wanted here anymore.

For Christ sake, it's mid-October and you were in such a rush to get here that you didn't even bother to put a jacket on. A walk to your car won't kill you, but your own conscience just fucking might.

You make for the door, but there is shifting behind you. You try not to turn and look at him, because turning back is the hardest thing you did recently.

Idiot. You still did.

His eyes are slowly fluttering open, arm stretching up to no doubt wake up from the uncomfortable position. He didn't notice your silhouette at first, but when he did he flinched. Upper body lifting up and supporting himself with his elbow, he blinked at you a few times in silence. You stared right back at him, both of you visibly vulnerable without your identical protective eye wear.

It's quiet, the only sounds reaching your ears being the isolated noises cars made while passing by.

Once again, you somehow manage to turn away. Your hand makes it to the doorknob when a voice makes you freeze in your tracks and makes your hand pause almost in mid-air.

"Hal?" He asks, and if you didn't see him wake up right now, his groggy and tired voice would make it obvious that he was straight out of snoozeland anyways. You don't reply, nor do you look back. Your lips are pressed into a thin line, and your breaths are heavy, yet inaudible.

"Where are you going?" He speaks again after one minute, twenty four seconds of silence.

"Home." You reply. The tone which you spoke with was so different from your usual one, almost as if it was someone else speaking instead of you. It came off as a tad unsettling even for you, and you kind of hope it's enough to silence him up.

Your eyes close, hand falling down to take a good grip of the knob. He doesn't say anything else, and neither do you.

This was a mistake from the start, a magnificent mistake which you'd repeat over and over again if you could. But you can't and you won't, no matter how much you fucking want this, want him, want everything that has to do with him.

It's surprising when sudden contact catches you off guard, because by your level of want, you should have expected it. But you didn't. You didn't even hear him standing up by the bed creaking, nor did you hear him walk towards you. He did pride himself on being a ninja, a master of stealth, but that was just his bullshit. This wasn't bullshit. The hands wrapping around your waist weren't bullshit, and his chin resting on your shoulder was by no means bullshit. His soft breath was warm on your neck, his voice soft yet firm when he spoke.

"Stay." Was what he simply mumbled out, and you don't have it in you to disobey.

He wants something to hold on to, and you're there. You're there for current comfort, and you're there to be disregarded as nothing when he is okay again.

But as you lay with him again, this time under the warm blanket and your arm around him, you find it difficult to think about anything else other than his warmth, the texture of his uncovered skin, his smell. You'll leave tomorrow, when it's obvious that he doesn't want you around. You'll leave when you're not needed.

But for now, you're fulfilling your own selfish needs, no matter how much it's destined to sting in the near future.

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck me up (fuck me up inside)


End file.
